I don't have anything to say, I don't think. Nothing important, and nothing not important. Just nothing.

I talk, of course, because that's what people do. But it's just talk.

I wrote a book this November, because that's what I do. Even though I didn't have anything to say, I wrote a novel.

Every year, I forget how it feels to do that. I forget the rush of starting a new thing, the excitement of getting the time to work on it. The process of settling in, organizing thoughts, listening to music in the dark.

I always forget about how it feels when it's over, too. The withdrawal process. Feeling a little lost, confused. Feeling like the world isn't quite real, because I've been living in an imaginary world for a month.

And missing the people that you've been thinking about constantly; these made up characters, who were never real, and the places that never existed.

And now I'm back, and all that is gone, and it's a weird feeling, to miss, so much, things that weren't.

But even more than that, I miss creating. I miss making something, even it the final product is next to worthless. I always think I'll continue writing after November, but I never do. Maybe a random paragraph that I don't even bother saving, or a semi-clever remark on social media, but not real writing, not real creating.